


Nightmare for all Seasons

by kakera



Category: Lost Souls - Poppy Z. Brite
Genre: M/M, Nightmares, Post-Canon, ripping off a band-aid, steve finn and a lamp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 06:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3682290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakera/pseuds/kakera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve might have convinced himself that he was over what happened, but he hadn't convinced Ghost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmare for all Seasons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sazzykins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sazzykins/gifts).



> My first ever Lost Souls fic! This happened because I was looking for things to paint and sazzykins suggested something, which turned into a scene I had to write...and then the fic happened. Which ended up not cracky at all, unlike the original suggestion!

Spring clung to Missing Mile like a limpet, the cool air and pale sunshine as yet unyielding to the heat of summer. Stretching out on the pine needles in the old graveyard, Ghost leaned against Miles Hummingbird's headstone and sucked on a joint.

Last time he'd smoked out here, he'd been with Steve, and spring was newly arrived. _"I love you, Ghost,"_ Steve had said. _"Love you too,"_ Ghost had replied, quietly overjoyed to let the long-restrained words slip from his tongue.

Maybe the night-time atmosphere and the loneliness and the drugs had gotten to Steve's head, because he never said it again. He stopped going out to the graveyard, too, so Ghost went up there alone.

Steve still crawled into Ghost's bed more nights than not. The nightmares still came and Steve woke Ghost by screaming, thrashing and sobbing. Ghost had hidden the bruises from Steve on more than one occasion. It wasn't Steve's fault, and Ghost didn't want to bother him about it.  
Steve might have convinced himself that he was over what happened, but he hadn't convinced Ghost.

"How is it down there, Miles?" Ghost thought, picturing the soul beneath the soil. "So much has changed here, but spring keeps hanging on."

"Cool and dark, Ghost," Miles whispered back into Ghost's brain. "Peaceful. You boys need a change of scenery. Get out on the sea, go to the mountains..."

Ghost shivered when he thought of the mountains. He'd been born there. Sometimes he felt them call to him, like a parent to a child, but he'd never been back. Something in his bones told him not to. Besides, Steve would hate it there. He'd been drinking too much beer lately, and flirting with women everywhere he went. All in pretence of being okay. Where Ghost came from, there wasn't much in the way of beer or women. The old house, if it hadn't fallen down now, stood far away from any other settlement. It was like that in the mountains.

"Steve wouldn't like more change," he thought. Any more would make Steve worse.

"You boys have changed too, Ghost," Miles replied.

"We have..." Ghost sighed.

Miz Caitlin had said the same. He and Steve weren't the same people who had set off for New Orleans last fall. Things would never be as they had been Before.

Ghost was about to grind out the end of joint - save the rest for Steve, whenever he showed up at home - when Steve's voice reached his ears. Ghost looked up and saw his friend approaching. Steve's eyes shone with a new brightness, a light that promised adventure.

"Ghost! I've just been out to that new place over at Raleigh. They've booked us for a gig."

Ghost sat up, pine needles sticking to his tangled blond hair. Change was coming, whether he wanted it or not. "When?"

"Tonight!" Steve grinned widely. "The place is classy, Ghost. Real slick. They've got a _wine list_ and their customers are _young professionals_. And we'll be paid! The bucks will be rolling in."

Ghost wasn't sure if young professionals that needed a wine list would get their music, but a gig was a gig. And Steve was excited, and Ghost hadn't seen that look in his eyes for a long time. It made him happy. Ghost smiled. "Let's get over there early, scope it out."

"There's one thing," Steve remembered, pausing to suck on the end of the joint that Ghost offered him. "Mister Marshall, the owner, wants us to dress up. Suits and stuff."

Neither owned a suit. Jeans and t-shirts were the basis of their wardrobes, with flannel shirts for Steve and comfortable sweaters for Ghost when the weather turned cold. Their eyes met as this sank in.

"Well, shit," said Steve.

 

 

Ghost found the striped suits in a discount bin at the local thrift store. Steve thought they probably should have stayed there. He bitched about the jacket, saying it fit too tightly around his biceps, and bitched even more when Ghost showed him the polka dot waistcoat, but Ghost had _looked_ at him and Steve relented. At moments like that he had a hard time saying no to Ghost.

Steve thought they looked ridiculous, but the women at the bar seemed to like it. Steve figured he'd put up with it for now.

The ugly suits had been met with approval from the bar's owner, at least. "Good to see young men dressed up these days," Mister Marshall had said.

Steve abandoned the jacket during the sound check. It fit too damn tight.

As he fiddled with his guitar, he glanced over at Ghost, who was chatting to the cute young barmaid. Ghost's clothes always looked slightly too big, and the black and white striped suit jacket was no exception. The two suits had been the same size - Steve's size - so Ghost's pants were too big as well. They were being held up by a black belt, which in a last minute flash of creativity, Ghost had daubed with circles of white paint: polka dots, to match Steve's waistcoat.

Ghost didn't wear a waistcoat. Steve's had been the only one in the thrift store. Steve would be a liar if he said he disliked the _idea_ of waistcoats. They made him think of old gentlemen, who would never do anything like he had done to Ann--

Steve gulped, frowning. _'Don't think about it, Steve Finn,'_ he scolded himself. Flashes of the past burned their way into his consciousness, and Steve dumped his guitar down with an frustrated growl.

Ghost looked up, blue eyes filled with concern. Steve wouldn't meet Ghost's gaze, instead focused on Ghost's skinny, pale neck. Ghost wore no tie - they couldn't find any at the thrift store to match the suits - but had found a length of black ribbon in Miz Deliverance's battered old sewing box. He'd fastened it in a bow, which was slowly working loose.

Suits were as alien on Ghost as they were on Steve, but Steve couldn't help finding that bow somewhat appealing. In his mind's eye he saw himself tugging the satin strand undone and dropping it to the floor, his fingers making light work of Ghost's shirt buttons...

"Steve?"

Steve blinked. Ghost stood at the edge of the stage now, lips slightly parted and eyes questioning.

"It's nothing," Steve snapped. "I gotta piss." Red faced, he stomped off the stage and sought out the bathrooms.

 

Steve took a long time washing his hands. When he zoned out, he saw them covered in blood--Ann's blood, Christian's blood, and his own. He saw them holding Ann down. Steve shuddered. He'd never get those memories out of his head, nor lose the hellish guilt that weighed so heavily in his chest. _'Ann... I'm sorry,_ ' Steve thought. He'd never said it to her. She wouldn't have forgiven him, and Steve didn't think he deserved to be forgiven. All the shit that went down last fall had been what Ghost would call karma. It was just fucked up that Ann was the one who ended up dead.

Ghost was the only thing keeping Steve together sometimes. Always nearby, always being so damn understanding. Sometimes, Steve wished Ghost would keep the hell out of his head. Other times, he wished Ghost would crawl inside his head and tell him what was going on in there. Make everything better.

Ghost knew what he'd done to Ann. So why the fuck was Ghost still around? Why had he been through all that shit with him, and helped him survive the winter of nightmares?

_'You know why. You heard why in the graveyard at the start of spring. You felt why on that mattress above Arkady Raventon's shop in New Orleans. The mattress Ann died on.'_

Steve growled, tormented by his inner monologue.

 _'You see why when he looks at you and you_ know _why because you feel it too.'_

Steve punched the wall, and swore as pain shot through his fist. It was painful enough to snap him out of his self-loathing reverie, and he swore again when he uncurled his fingers, knuckles red and sore.

Flexing his fingers uncomfortably, Steve studied his reflection in the mirror above the sink. His eyes were ringed with dark circles. Steve had forgotten to shave, and his dark hair stuck out all over the place even though he'd run his hands through it before leaving the house. The evening had barely begun and he already looked a mess. Mister Marshall would probably complain.

 _'Ghost won't mind. He'd have you no matter what. He_ loves _you no matter what. And you--'_

"Shut up," Steve muttered. He didn't need to think of that right now. Steve Finn loved _women,_ damn it! If Ghost wanted to be gay well fine, that suited Ghost. But Steve Finn was manly, Steve Finn was tough, that was why he dated a different woman each night and avoided hanging out with Ghost in all the old places that suddenly felt romantic and comfortable.

Steve refused to think about why he couldn't fuck any of those women. He was starting to get a bit of a reputation for being a Nice Guy.

A nice guy was something he could never be. Steve could almost hear Ann's scornful laugh.

What he didn't hear was the door of the men's room swing open, or Ghost's sneakered footsteps approach. Steve didn't notice Ghost's arrival until a hand took hold of his, fingers smooth and warm against the bruises that hadn't yet appeared.

"Can you still play?" Ghost's thumb ran over the bumps of Steve's knuckles. He studied Steve's face rather than his reddened, rapidly-swelling hand. All Steve's troubles were laid out there, and Ghost's heart ached to see them. He could never bring it up, not until Steve did. Not until Steve was ready.

Steve yanked his hand away. "Course I can, don't be stupid," he snapped, taking dim pleasure in seeing Ghost's hurt expression.

Ghost took a step back as though Steve had slapped him. "Place is filling up," he said, retreating to the door. "We're on in five."

"Ghost..." Steve sighed, ready to punch the wall again. He hadn't wanted to hurt Ghost, not really. But it was that or something much, much worse.

Steve left the men's room and made his way to the stage, impatient to get the gig over with and intent on getting very drunk afterwards. A thought hung in the back of his mind, causing him to grimace: _Whatever Steve Finn loves, Steve Finn destroys_.

As he stepped up onto the stage, Ghost shot Steve a smile: all was forgiven.

Steve smiled back in relief, a shade of guilt in his eyes. Ghost's heart was so big, but Steve knew one day he would hurt Ghost so badly that Ghost wouldn't be able to forgive him. Steve dreaded when that day would come.

But he had no time to mope over his problems now. Ghost was stepping up to the microphone, the smart-looking clientele had noticed them, and a hush was falling over the room.

Steve picked up his guitar, and Lost Souls? began the first song of their set.

The gig turned out to be a pretty good one. By the end of it, most of the women in the room had their eyes fixed hungrily upon Steve, who couldn't help showing off a little when he noticed he had their attention. The stage was hot; he'd pushed up his sleeves and unfastened the top few buttons of his shirt. Ghost was still in full suit, and Steve couldn't figure out how he could stand the heat.

They left the stage to applause - such a weird change to screams and cheers! - and headed to the bar.

The cute barmaid set up two glasses and two cans of ice cold beer for them. Steve and Ghost ignored the glasses and drank straight from the cans, draining them in moments. Gigs were thirsty work.

"Two more, thanks," Steve got out his wallet.

"On the house, boys," Mister Marshall strode up and shook their hands. "My acts drink for free. You certainly roused the crowd! I'll have you back again, mark my words."

"Thanks, Mister Marshall," Ghost grinned. "We'll be back, won't we Steve?" He smiled brilliantly at the guitarist, gaze euphoric. Steve nodded and grunted in agreement, glad his blush was hidden beneath the flush of playing an hour's set beneath hot stage lights. Steve took a big gulp of beer.

"Good boys. Enjoy yourselves. I'll be in touch." Mister Marshall shook hands with them again and signalled to the girl at the bar. "Keep 'em coming, Annie."

Steve winced and looked away. Suddenly the barmaid didn't seem so cute.

On Mister Marshall's orders, the beers kept coming. No sooner had they got halfway through a can, another appeared before them. Looking around, Ghost realised that Marshall's was a place where the middle classes went to get drunk. There wasn't a sober soul in the house, which included the staff.

Steve was having a great time. He'd forgotten his troubles - didn't even remember that he had any - and was now chatting to a really cute young thing in pale pink silk.

What Steve didn't realise was that he was chatting up a lamp. Ghost looked on in amusement. He'd interrupt soon enough, if Steve didn't realise for himself and do that adorable thing where he pretended it hadn't happened.

As Ghost watched, he began to feel sad. Steve had so much weight in his heart. The past hung in Steve's mind like a cloud, haunting and tormenting.

Ghost would never expect Steve to forget what had happened. Ghost wouldn't forget about it either, nor would he leave Steve to deal with it alone--no matter what.

Beneath the surface of Steve's bravado, he could see the new Steve Finn trying to get out. There was a new fragility to Steve after all that had happened. Ghost was the only one Steve had ever broken down in front of, but afterwards Steve always acted like he hadn't. It wasn't adorable when Steve did it in those times. It was heart-breaking.

"Hey, Ghost!" Steve turned suddenly, words slurred. "This cute chick, I reckon--" He jerked his thumb towards the lamp, glanced behind himself, and blinked when all he saw was the lamp. "...I reckon it's time to go," Steve uttered, recovering himself and trying to squash his embarrassment. He pushed away from the bar, stumbled, and found himself held up by Ghost.

"Sure, let's go home. Where are your keys?" Ghost smiled serenely.

Steve prodded Ghost's chest irritably. "You're not driving the T-bird."

"You can't even stand."

"Fair enough." Steve handed over the keys, let Ghost half-carry him outside, and sat in the passenger seat whilst Ghost loaded up their equipment and settled with Mister Marshall. Steve hazily remembered trying to pull a lamp. He was angry that Ghost hadn't stopped him. Steve crossed his arms and closed his eyes, bored with waiting. Ghost had probably been laughing at him. Probably was still laughing, with old man Marshall.

Without realising it, Steve fell asleep.

 

 

Ghost's hand was cool on Steve's forehead. Grumbling softly, Steve opened his eyes and saw the darkened roof of his car.

"Wha...?" He groaned.

Ghost appeared in his line of view, face mostly in shadow, eyes glittering in some far-off light. "We're home," he murmured. His hand slipped from Steve's forehead to his stubbly cheek. "Thought I'd never wake you."

"Should've let me sleep in the car," Steve mumbled. Working of their own accord, Steve's fingers snagged the fabric of Ghost's jacket, curling into it, holding him there. Steve stared at him hazily, alcohol making his head swim. "...Fuck, I'm gonna have a hangover tomorrow."

"You'll be fine." Steve couldn't see Ghost's expression, but imagined he was smiling. He could hear it in Ghost's voice.

Feeling Ghost's hand slip away from his cheek, Steve grabbed it, his grasp rough and awkward. He heard Ghost's sharp intake of breath, and pain shot through his hand. Seemed punching the wall had done worse than he'd thought. Steve grimaced and squeezed Ghost's hand firmly. Then he realised what he was doing. "...Let's get inside. Fucking tired."

"Yeah." Ghost sat back, eyes fixed on Steve, who didn't seem to want to move. "I'll see you inside, then."

Steve nodded, and Ghost got out of the car. A moment later Steve heard the front door of the house creak open and closed. He let out a sigh. If Ghost had been a woman, shit would be way more straightforward.

But he wasn't, and nor was Steve. Steve was a man. Ghost was his friend, and that was all he'd ever be.

Until the next time Steve fucked up, and Ghost left him, of course.

Steve thumped the dashboard, and cursed. His hand hurt even more now.

At length he got out of the car and stumbled into the house.

 

Steve didn't go to Ghost's room to sleep. He never did. But hours later, waking from a nightmare, he would crawl beneath Ghost's blankets, seeking comfort for the problems he pretended weren't there.

He always did.

 

Tonight was no exception. Steve awoke with a jolt, heart racing, body drenched with sweat. As he trod along the worn carpet to Ghost's room he shivered in the cold, dark air.

Ghost's room seemed a beacon of peace amidst the chaos of the rest of the house, despite being pretty chaotic in its own right. By moonlight, Steve navigated a path to the bed through a maze of notebooks, records and discarded clothes, coming to a stop at the side of the bed. Ghost was barely visible beneath the pile of old patchwork, only his hair could be seen, pale as ever in the dim light.

Judging him to be asleep, Steve pulled back the covers carefully and slipped beneath them. His shivering ceased the moment he was wrapped in that warm, Ghost-scented bed, and Steve began to relax, the horror of his nightmare leaving him.

Then Ghost turned onto his side, threw an arm around Steve's chest and shifted closer. Steve realised that Ghost hadn't been asleep after all.

Ghost pressed a kiss to Steve's forehead. "G'night Steve," he murmured, settling down again.

"Night," Steve mumbled back, closing his eyes. Ghost's thumb stroked his skin softly, touch soothing. Steve's body felt light, warm, _full_ \--and suddenly they were back in that room above Arkady Raventon's store, and Ghost had just kissed him, and Steve wasn't sure if it had been by accident or on purpose, but he didn't care because it felt good, so he kissed back. Then they were naked, bodies hot and needy, but movements gentle and unhurried, hands and lips exploring territory previously out of bounds: making the moment count, because it would all be over in the morning.

 

Steve awoke with tears in his eyes, and it _was_ morning. He blinked rapidly and rubbed his eyes, ashamed. The dream had hurt. Ghost had faded with the sunrise, leaving Steve alone in a world where nothing grew.

Rolling over, Steve found that Ghost was still sleeping. It was rare that he awoke before Ghost did. Ghost was usually up with the dawn, or at least shortly after, fresh-faced and full of energy no matter how drunk he'd been the night before.

Steve was beginning to feel the symptoms of a hangover.

He watched Ghost sleep, unwilling to get up and face the day feeling like shit. His dreams resurfaced in his mind, and Steve thought them stupid. They'd never made love... Steve swallowed and shifted onto his back again. Course they hadn't, they were friends, not fuck buddies, not to mention _he wasn't gay_.

Yet there was something that drew Steve to roll over again, to rest on one elbow and brush Ghost's hair from his face, to lean down and press a kiss to his forehead, all the while his heart thudding, scared and thrilled that he might get caught. Steve Finn didn't do this stuff.

Didn't used to, anyway.

Settling back down, Steve closed his eyes, recalling the kiss above Arkady's store. It had felt good. Steve had needed it. They both had.

Then Steve remembered those few weeks ago in the old graveyard, though the memory came unbidden. _'I love you, Ghost.' 'Love you too.'_

And Steve did, which was the problem. Ghost had been the only constant in his life, the only thing that had never gone to shit. Ghost loved him. But he wouldn't stay if Steve couldn't love him back. So what was it to be, lose Ghost through ignoring his love, or act upon his goddamn feelings for once, and risk hurting him--risk losing him anyway? Could he really forgo his masculinity and let himself be with another man?

If Steve hadn't been hung over, he might have laughed at himself. He'd pretty much left his masculinity at the door the first time he'd crawled into Ghost's bed.

So, what was it to be...?

Steve's body felt heavy with sleep. As he dozed off again, he could have sworn he felt Ghost's arms wind around him, and heard his soft murmur, "I'm not going anywhere, Steve."

 

Ghost had been feigning sleep, listening to Steve's thoughts. With his eyes closed, he could sense what was on Steve's mind as though it were being shouted aloud. The thoughts made Ghost sad, but they also gave him hope.

Only when Steve began to drift off again did Ghost hold him, and mumble softly into his ear. Steve wouldn't hear, wouldn't even remember, but Ghost hated that Steve thought he would be left alone. So Ghost remained there, half-awake and lazy, watching specks of dust dance in the morning sunlight. Eventually, too unwilling to part from Steve and open the window for fresh air, Ghost let sleep claim him once more.

 

When Ghost reawoke, it was to the sound of the T-Bird rumbling its way out of the drive. The space where Steve had been sleeping was still faintly warm, and Ghost rolled over into it, inhaling the scent of last night's drunkenness and dreams. Steve had probably got up and gone to work as fast as he could. It was no secret that he felt awkward waking up beside Ghost.

Nuzzling the pillow, Ghost silently wished Steve a good day. Steve needed it.

As he lay there, Ghost thought about Steve, the way his friend ended up in bed with him virtually every night now, and the nightmares that wouldn't seem to go away. He thought of Steve's denial. Steve hadn't got over what he'd done to Ann, nor was he over what happened in New Orleans, and he definitely hadn't come to terms with his feelings. The reason was simple enough for anybody to see: Steve was scared.

But Ghost knew he couldn't bring it up with him.

 

All too soon, the remains of Steve's body heat and scent gave way to Ghost's own. Restless, Ghost threw back the covers. He'd visit Miz Caitlin. He needed her guidance.

 

 

"When a band-aid is stuck to a scab, you have to rip it off quick. The scab will come away, but there will be fresh, new skin underneath. Sometimes the wound needs a little ointment and care to heal completely, but ripping off the band aid is the first step." Miz Caitlin's tiny hands worked a crochet hook as she spoke, a granny square fast taking shape in colourful yarn. She looked up at Ghost with bright, wise eyes, fingers not missing a stitch as she worked. "That Steve Finn of yours won't do it on his own, so you'll have to help him."

Ghost squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, and sipped the herbal tea Miz Caitlin had prepared him. He'd ended up a little hung over after all. "He's scared, Miz Caitlin." Ghost was scared, too. Scared that Steve would hate him and the rift between them would widen even further. Asides night time and on stage, Steve always went out of his way not to touch him.

"You're the only one who can help him, Ghost-child," Miz Caitlin had set down her work now, the little crocheted square joining a pile of others in a basket by her chair. "He won't let anybody else do it. He doesn't _want_ anybody else to."

Ghost sighed and nodded, cradling the fragile china teacup in his hands. "Why can't I see that?"

Miz Caitlin got up from her chair and hobbled across to Ghost, her thin arms pulling him into a hug. She'd seen everything in Ghost's face before he'd even begun to talk, and plucked plenty more from his mind when he began. Ghost hadn't told her that he was in love with his best friend, but she knew. And if the feeling in her bones was right - and it was never wrong - Steve Finn loved Ghost, too. As a girl she might have cursed such love as wrong, even evil, but in her twilight years she knew there was no evil to be found in loving someone.

"Your heart is filled with him," she said comfortingly. "And you're scared. I know it, Ghost-child. But that fear only makes your heart stronger. He needs your strength, because he's tried to be strong on his own for too long."

"I know..." Ghost hugged Miz Caitlin's tiny form, grateful of her counsel.

"Now, you just wait right there." Miz Caitlin broke away from him and disappeared into the kitchen with their empty teacups. Ghost settled back in the threadbare chair and fingered the old linen coverings on the arms. Miz Caitlin's place felt like a big, warm hug, of childhood summers playing in the fields and of winter nights wrapped up in musty homemade quilts. The scent of the herbal tea hung in the air, and Ghost smiled. The hangover was gone.

 

By the time Miz Caitlin returned, Ghost had gone exploring in her back room. The place was off-limits to most visitors, but Ghost was always the exception, and the back room was like a sanctuary to him. Every shelf held carefully-labelled jars, of every herb Ghost had heard of, and plenty he had yet to discover.

As a child, Ghost had liked to choose a jar, and Miz Caitlin and Miz Deliverance would tell him what the herbs could be used for. Often the two women had struck up a discussion on the merits of alternative herbs, whilst Ghost had sat there, cross legged, soaking it all up. There had only ever been a few jars he'd never been allowed to touch, and those were all kept on a high shelf, far out of reach. Miz Caitlin had to use a little set of wooden steps to reach them.

"There you are!" Miz Caitlin stood in the doorway, and held out a large brown paper bag to Ghost. When he took it, he smelt the aroma of meat and herbs, and peeped into the bag to see a green tupperware tub.

"You were always a skinny one, but you're too darn thin these days," Miz Caitlin admonished gently. "You get that stew in you, and make sure Steve eats some too. Warm it up slow, mind. Let the flavours soak in."

"Thanks, Miz Caitlin," Ghost smiled and kissed her cheek. It was time to go.

Miz Caitlin led him to the door and stood on the porch as he climbed onto his bike, the bag safely in the basket on the front. "Say hello to Steve," she called out. "And if he won't let you help, he's still not too big for me to tan his hide!"

Ghost laughed. "I'll remember that. 'Bye Miz Caitlin. And thanks."

"Go safely, Ghost-child." Miz Caitlin waved until Ghost was out of sight, then hobbled back into the house, shaking her head. Those boys were far too wrapped up in their own thoughts. They didn't see what was in front of them.

 

 

Steve wasn't quite sure how he'd ended up at the old graveyard. He'd left the house that morning and gone to work at the Whirling Disc, but it was too damn quiet and Steve had gotten pissed off doing nothing, so Terry had sent him home.

Only Steve hadn't gone home. He'd cruised around Missing Mile in the T-Bird, stopped off to pick up some beers, and headed out to the hill, parking up by the great oak. He'd started on the beers before he arrived, stared blankly at the luminescent power station across the lake, tried - and failed - not to think of the past.

Steve remembered getting through the last of the beer, but didn't know how he'd got from the hill to the graveyard. He slumped against Miles Hummingbird's gravestone, in the spot where Ghost used to sit, and tried to figure it out. He'd gone home, that was it. And Ghost hadn't been there, so Steve had gone to look for him.

Why...?

Steve rested his head back against the weathered stone and squinted, scowling, at the bright sky. Why the hell was he looking for Ghost anyway? It was better that he kept away from him. Yeah. He'd only hurt him otherwise. Sure Ghost loved him, but Steve couldn't love Ghost.

"You mean you won't let yourself," a voice spoke as though inside Steve's head, and Steve looked around.

"What?" He frowned, not seeing anyone.

"You boys need a change. You ain't the Steve Finn you were last fall."

Steve jumped to his feet, stumbling forward. "Alright, stop fucking around and show yourself!" he shouted. The world felt all topsy-turvy, and Steve gripped the headstone for support. There was no reply, and Steve felt stupid.

"Too many damn beers," he muttered to himself, sitting down again. It was damn good nobody had been about to see that.

As Steve sat there glumly, his mind unwittingly returned to the night above Arkady's shop. Ghost had been willing to give himself to Arkady, for Steve's sake. If it hadn't been for Ghost, Steve would have strangled Arkady for trying that shit. Nobody fucked with Ghost, not on Steve's watch.

Then there had been the kiss, accidental and then needy, in the darkness of that room upstairs. Steve's lips still tingled to think of it.

But he wasn't gay. No, Steve Finn was a tough guy.

His mind roved over the last time he'd been here properly, with Ghost, early in Spring. Smoking up a joint, chilling out amongst the pine needles... Ghost was the only good thing Steve had going in his life. Everything else fucked him around, the T-Bird included. And Steve fucking loved the T-Bird, hunk of junk that it was.

Things were just damn simpler when they were cars and women. Ghost had to complicate things, didn't he?

"You're the one making it complicated," spoke the voice again, definitely inside Steve's head.

Steve scowled. "Shut up."

"Just tryin' to help, boy." The voice sounded dejected.

"Shut up!" Steve pressed his hands to his ears and closed his eyes. This was ridiculous. Sitting up here, drunk and hearing voices and talking to himself? Fucking ridiculous. What was he thinking about anyway?

Oh, yeah. Ghost.

"Fuck..." Steve thumped the ground with his fist, almost delighted by the pain that shot through his hand. It had been hurting since its meeting with the wall yesterday night, and his knuckles were covered in dark bruises. It vindicated his feelings, somehow. Made his frustration, his fear, his pain - his love - real. It was a tiny penance for hurting Ann, for what happened with those shithead vampires, and for all the times he'd hurt Ghost and Ghost had pretended it was nothing.

Ghost had really fucked him over. They'd been friends for so long, and Ghost had always been there. Steve had always told himself that he didn't need anybody, but at some point between waking up that morning and getting to the old graveyard, he'd admitted it to himself: he needed Ghost.

"Of course you need him. It's taken you darn long enough to realise," the voice in Steve's head spoke up again.

"And so what?" Steve snarled. Did it make him weak? He felt weak. He was a man, he shouldn't need anyone. Then again Ghost was a guy too, and Steve had saved Ghost's ass plenty of times. Ghost was too pure, too trusting. Steve didn't want to see Ghost become tainted and hurt.

"Steve? What are you doing here?" This time the voice wasn't in Steve's head. It was far more familiar and made his heart lurch.

Steve lifted his head. "Ghost? The fuck are _you_ doing here?"

"I asked first," Ghost replied calmly, winding his way through the headstones. He stopped opposite Steve. "Been looking all over for you. Went to the Disc but Terry said he gave you the day off, so I checked out the Yew and all through town. Then I got back and the T-Bird was in the drive. You left the door open."

Steve realised that Ghost was worried. "I'm fucking stupid then, aren't I?"

Shrugging, Ghost sat down beside Steve. "Figured something was up. Didn't expect to find you here, though."

"Why not? We always hang out here. Where the fuck have you been, anyway?" Steve knew he was getting defensive, knew he didn't need to be, but he couldn't stop himself. Defensiveness was his protection, and Steve was feeling vulnerable.

"I went to Miz Caitlin's. She says hi. Sent over some stew..." Ghost smiled at Steve, but it wasn't a happy smile, instead it was coloured with concern, and a sad longing. "You've not hung out here for a while, Steve," he said softly.

"You'd better eat that stew. You're too fucking skinny these days," Steve grumbled. He chose not to address the fact he'd been avoiding Ghost, avoiding the graveyard.

"Miz Caitlin said that too."

Steve's head whipped around and he eyed Ghost closely. Ghost looked tired. When Steve thought about it, he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Ghost eat. And were those bruises, peeking out from the collar of Ghost's oversized sweater?

"Are you sick?" Steve blurted out. He couldn't handle it if Ghost was sick.

"Kinda, I guess. Miz Caitlin said it's like a band-aid that's stuck to a scab and gotta be pulled." Ghost shrugged with one shoulder, the action momentarily exposing more bruised flesh.

"You guess?" Steve grabbed Ghost's sweater and tugged the collar down, revealing jutting collarbones and a sharp, pale shoulder. All covered in bruises.

Ghost froze. "Steve..."

"Who did this to you? I'll fucking kill them." Steve held Ghost's sweater in a vice-like grip. Ghost wanted to pull away, cover up the bruises and make Steve forget about them. But Steve wouldn't let go.

Ghost swallowed, looked at the ground, at Steve's bruised hand clutching his clothes, and back at Steve's face. Ghost had never seen him look so pissed off, and was terrified of what would happen when Steve heard the answer.

"Tell me," Steve urged, eyes blazing with fury. "Nobody fucks with you. Nobody! Tell me who did it! I'll beat them so hard that--"

"You did it, Steve," Ghost uttered quietly. "It was you."

Steve was puzzled now, and hurt. He loosened his grip on Ghost's sweater, and Ghost gladly pulled the fabric back into place.

"...when?" Steve asked, brow knitted. "How? Was I drunk?"

"It happens when you have nightmares," Ghost explained, trembling inside. Pulling off a band-aid hurt, and remaining calm was difficult. But this was Steve. He had to do it for Steve. Ghost rested his hand gently on Steve's shoulder. "You lash out in your sleep. Mostly I manage to stop you, but sometimes I don't grab you in time."

"Shit, Ghost, I....Fuck!" Steve thumped the ground again. "Fuck all this shit! Fuck Ann, fuck Zillah and those assholes, fuck that Arkady creep, fuck everything that's happened!" Steve had jumped to his feet, the toe of his boot punctuating every 'fuck' with a scattering of pine needles. "And fuck hurting you, Ghost." Steve sighed, looking utterly defeated. "Fuck, I am such a fucking loser asshole creep. Zillah should've killed me."

"Steve, no," Ghost was on his feet now, enveloping Steve in a hug made of worn jersey and earth and calm. "It's not true. A lot of shit happened, huh? So what if you're not over it yet. It's not your fault."

"It is," Steve replied hoarsely, hanging on to Ghost for dear life. "If I hadn't-- Ann--"

"No," Ghost shook his head. "What happened with Ann was real shitty. You're damn lucky you didn't get arrested. But she was under Zillah's spell. There's nothing we could've done to save her. Even if you'd not done what you did, Zillah would have come along, and the same thing would have happened."

"I deserve this shit..." Steve murmured despondently.

Ghost wasn't sure if Steve had heard what he'd said. "Miz Deliverance used to say that we reap what we sow." He rubbed Steve's back soothingly. For all his sins, Steve had suffered enough. "I say it's time to stop reaping, Steve."

Steve laughed - or was it a sob? - against Ghost's hair. Ghost held him tighter, and waited. Sometimes the new skin needed a moment to breathe.

"I'm not over it," Steve said at length, voice quiet and trembling. "What I did to Ann--Ghost, I can't forgive myself. And the shit that happened in New Orleans, I can't fucking forget it." Steve felt really weak now, weaker than he'd ever been. The fight had left him, and if not for Ghost holding onto him, he might have fallen to his knees.

As if he'd picked up on Steve's thoughts, Ghost gently guided Steve to sit down again, and kept his arms around him once they were settled against Miles' headstone. His heart ached for Steve all the more, and he wished there were a way he could reach into Steve's head and take away everything bad.

"The nightmares...they're shit," Steve spoke without prompt, fingers curling into the fabric of Ghost's sweater. "They're not even what happened. Zillah is there, and you, and sometimes Ann. And there's so much blood..." Steve shuddered, mouth twisting in disgust. "Sometimes it's just us, up above that creeper's shop, and it's dark, and we--a-and you, you...You're suddenly gone."

"I'm not going anywhere. Ever." Ghost had never heard Steve stammer before. Somehow, they'd get rid of the nightmares. He wouldn't let Steve down, not now the facade of the old and broken Steve Finn was falling away, not now the new, fragile Steve Finn was peering out.

"Why not, Ghost? Why the fuck not?" Steve sighed and pulled away. "You'll only get hurt."

Ghost shrugged. "Doesn't matter. We're gonna fix this."

"Sure it fucking matters! I'll destroy you, Ghost. I destroy everything that matters. Terry's near fired me before, I nearly wrapped the T-Bird around a tree on the way home; I did the worst thing to Ann, but you--!" Steve looked away, cheeks hot. What the hell was he doing, saying all this shit aloud? What was he, a weakling? Gay? He didn't love men!

"I'll risk it," Ghost said, unperturbed. He could sense how worked up Steve was. Steve needed him to be calm. "You're worth getting destroyed for, Steve Finn."

"Don't you dare say that," Steve growled. "This is like that shit with Arkady again. Don't. You're too damn fine, and I'm not worth it."

"I think you are."

Steve sighed. He was tired of fighting. He'd been pretending this shit in his head wasn't happening for far too long, and now Ghost was trying to help, he was pushing him away? _You're fucking stupid, Steve Finn..._

"Why me, Ghost?"

Ghost smiled slightly, calm blue gaze fixing Steve in place. "I love you, Steve."

"Why?" Steve knew it, felt it, had guessed long ago, but still couldn't believe it.

Ghost shrugged. "I just do." Seeing that Steve still wore that look of disbelief, Ghost sighed. "If you wanna know what I love about you, I guess I can be more specific. I love your passion. The heart you hide behind your bravado. The way you pretend something didn't happen when you're embarrassed by it. How you act like my protector. The easy way we became friends and ended up living at grandmother's place. All those nights writing songs together, the way you show off on stage, the look in your eyes when you're excited, your expression when you've woken up... I gotta say Steve, the only thing I don't love about you is how you suffer. I want to help."

Steve's face had reddened even darker than before. Did he really do that stuff? Steve looked at Ghost. Ghost wasn't smiling, but his eyes shone with brightness and warmth.

"I..." Steve nodded, looking away. This was fucking hard. "Please. Help." He swallowed.

"We'll work it out," Ghost promised. He felt slightly disappointed. After all he'd said, Steve still couldn't face up to his feelings. Ghost also felt selfish: of course Steve couldn't, not with everything else going on. "Don't worry anymore, Steve," Ghost murmured.

"Ghost..." A sigh escaped Steve's lips. He felt tired, lost, crushed, but hopeful. If there was anyone he could trust, it was Ghost. Ghost wouldn't let him down. "You're the only thing in my life that isn't shit, Ghost." Steve said quietly. "Only thing that matters..." Steve paused, frowning. "I'm not gay," he said with certainty, as though having to affirm it with himself. "I don't love other men."

Ghost squeezed his shoulder in response. Steve's mind was jumbled, but it seemed he was finally starting to make sense of it.

"You don't have to. Just love Ghost. That's how it is." The voice was in his head again, and Steve swore.

"Fucking shut up!"

Ghost blinked. "I didn't say anything."

"Not you," Steve sighed, frustrated that the calm release of the moment had been shattered by that damn voice. "I'm fucking drunk. There's voices in my head. A voice. Tellin' me all kinds of shit."

Ghost smiled faintly and ran his hand through Steve's hair, brushing the wild loops and waves away from Steve's face. "It's Miles. Didn't think you could hear him."

Steve looked at the gravestone and let out a terse laugh. "Miles? Didn't think I could either. What the fuck is happening today, Ghost? It's weird."

"Maybe we're waking up," Ghost shrugged. "Or ripping off the band-aid."

"You were talking about that earlier. Something Miz Caitlin said. When I asked if you were sick." Steve's concern rose again. "You said kinda, and started spouting off about band-aids. You're sick, aren't you?"

Ghost shook his head, drawing patterns in the dusty earth with his fingertip. "I'm in love, Steve. It hurts to see you suffer. We'll fix it. It will be okay."

"I don't love other men," Steve said quietly. His hand closed around Ghost's, bruised and calloused, but for once gentle. "But you're different. You're...." Steve shrugged. "You're Ghost. You aren't other men. So I guess I do." Steve felt awfully shy as he spoke. How had it been so easy before, to tell Ghost the truth? Had it been the joint, the atmosphere? An hour or so and it would be dark here. Could he try again then, perhaps a little drunker, high, honest and unafraid? _Why was this so hard?_

"You don't want to hurt him..." Miles whispered up from the earth. "Give him what he needs. He's stronger than you think."

Steve didn't have the heart to tell Miles to shut up, or even to tell him that he knew. Miles was right, after all.

"It's okay, Steve," Ghost whispered. Steve held his hand as though he were afraid he might break it, and his faltering words made Ghost's heart yearn for him all the more.

 

They sat there in silence for a while, the cold stone at their backs slowly warming with their body heat, as the sun sank closer to the horizon.

"Summer's coming," Ghost said at length, stretching out on the pine needles. "Good time for changes."

"You're not gonna start talking about band-aids again, are you?" Steve arched a brow and Ghost laughed, shaking his head.

"No, we've done that part."

"So what now?" Steve was unsure. He felt exposed after all that had transpired here, but with Ghost it was safe. Ghost knew the way.

"Now comes the ointment and the healing." Ghost smiled and got to his feet, holding out a hand to Steve. "But first, Miz Caitlin's stew."

"Well you are too damn skinny." Steve took hold of Ghost's hand, and was about to pull himself up when something clicked into place. "Ghost?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry for being an asshole. Not coming up here, avoiding you and shit like that."

"It's okay." Ghost had already forgiven Steve that. It went without saying.

Steve finally pulled himself up, and kept hold of Ghost's hand. "It's not okay, Ghost. I hurt you."

Ghost shrugged, a sure-fire indication that Steve was right. "It doesn't matter. You've got other shit to deal with. Don't sweat it." He took a step away, trying to tug Steve along.

"It does matter. Don't argue with me on this, Ghost." His eyes blazed with the same fire that Ghost had seen earlier, when Steve had seen the bruises. "I fucked up without even realising, and I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted." Ghost smiled. Forgiving Steve was always easy.

"You forgive people way too easily," Steve said reproachfully. Sometimes he really worried about Ghost. Ghost was too damn trusting.

"Only you."

They were walking through the graveyard now, hand in hand, footsteps softened by the earth. Steve glanced at Ghost and grinned. Ghost's clothes and hair were covered in pine needles. Later, he'd make Ghost sit down, and he'd pick them all out. It would suck if those needles ended up in Ghost's bed. Steve bet that Ghost would still smell like pine needles for days. Whenever they went to the graveyard, Ghost wound up with the damn things stuck all over him. How the hell did he end up so smothered in them? It was adorable, really.

Steve stopped walking, and tugged on Ghost's hand. "Ghost?"

"Yeah?" Ghost looked back at him with a questioning expression, idly fiddling with a tangled, pine needle-covered strand of hair.

Steve didn't let himself think. He stepped forward, capturing Ghost's lips with his own. His arms wrapped around Ghost as if on autopilot, holding him there as his eyes slid closed and he felt Ghost respond. The kiss was clumsy at first, but unhurried, warm and searching and affectionate. Steve felt as though he was going to burst, felt he might pass out if he didn't stop to breathe, but he didn't want to stop kissing Ghost. It felt too damn good, like sinking into a hot bath after a hard day, or coming home after a long road trip.

Ghost clung to Steve and kissed back lovingly, committing every second to memory in case it was the last. His heart thudded heavily in his chest and he was sure he heard Miles chuckle in delight from across the graveyard, but he ignored it. Steve was all that mattered right now.

At length they broke apart, panting, red-faced and bright eyed. Ghost looked at Steve with new wonder. He hadn't expected that kiss, hadn't thought that Steve had it in him after all that had happened. But it had been glorious.

"Ghost..." Steve uttered, breathless but determined to get the words out before he turned too chicken. "I love you. I love you, Ghost." He smiled sheepishly, not sure how he should act after kissing his best friend.

Ghost's heart soared, and he smiled brightly. "I love you too, Steve. It's all gonna be okay."

"I know..." Seeing Ghost's smile, Steve knew that it really would be okay. A weight slid from his shoulders and he felt as though at last, there was a light at the end of the tunnel he'd been trapped in.

"Come on," said Ghost. "Let's go get dinner."

Hand in hand, they strolled back to the house.

 

 

Spring turned to summer, and with it came the heat, enough heat that Ghost threw off the blankets and patchwork at night, and often didn't even bother with clothes.

Steve still crawled into his bed in the middle of the night, still had nightmares, but they were becoming less frequent. Ghost had fewer bruises to cover, and the new Steve Finn showed through more with each day that passed.

They went to the old graveyard together again now, got high there, got drunk there, made out there, too. Steve came to realise there was no shame in loving Ghost. It was as easy as breathing--maybe because he'd loved Ghost all along. And Ghost learnt of the shadows that lurked in Steve's heart, learned to tame them and coax them into the light.

As summer gave way to fall, it was Steve who carefully tugged up the patchwork on the colder nights, a permanent presence in Ghost's bed now. The nightmares still came, but he didn't wake screaming any longer.

By the time winter had a hold of Missing Mile, only every few nights did Ghost have to hold Steve through a nightmare, and Steve found no more bruises on Ghosts's skin when they made love.

And when the pale morning sunshine of the next spring shone through their bedroom window, they lay awake sometimes, watching dust particles dance in the air, the nightmares faded like a distant memory.

 

Spring clung to Missing Mile like a limpet. Safe beneath the patchwork, Steve Finn held Ghost, and dreamed.


End file.
